


Fulfillment

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-07
Updated: 2006-09-07
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: When it's raining and Sam is wet, saving countless of lives via demon exorcism is the last thing on Dean's mind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Fulfillment  
Author: Impertinence  
Rating: Adult  
Summary: When it's raining and Sam is wet, saving countless of lives via demon exorcism is the _last_ thing on Dean's mind.  
  
  
  
||  
  
Sam hates rain.  
  
He doesn’t just dislike it the way he dislikes spiders or trashy novels or Dean’s whistling. He really, really hates it, the way Dean hates rats.  
  
Or pretzels, although Sam knows Dean’ll never admit that one out loud because it’s just plain weird.  
  
But he hates the way rain falls, warm and sticky-feeling, plastering his dirty shirt to his chest. He didn’t even _know_ his shirt was dirty until the rain started coming down in sheets, and now all the water streaming down to his feet is brown.   
  
Dean’s laughing his ass off even though they’re in the middle of making sure a pyromaniac ghost doesn’t burn an entire Indian reservation to the ground. It’s Oklahoma in the summer which means it’s really damn hot, and Sam’s not sure which is worse—the fact that even in the rain a good part of the settlement will burn, or the fact that the warmth makes the rain feel even more disgusting.  
  
“Would you shut up?! Sociopath,” Sam mutters. “Okay, this diagram should confuse the spirit, and then we can lure it into the wigwam and cast it out.”  
  
“Still don’t see why we can’t just shoot the damned thing until it runs off.”  
  
“Native America rituals, Dean,” Sam reminds him for what felt like the millionth time that day. There’s water running down his chest now and as he speaks he pulls his shirt away from his skin, letting the water just go. Jeez, this is annoying. “They hold ceremonies to honor the dead regularly. They pray to their dead daily, tell stories and stuff. We can’t just banish the ghost with rosemary or whatever.” When he lets go of his shirt it lands against his chest with a wet _thwap._ “Hence, the diagram and spell and all that.”  
  
It’s not until he glances up at Dean that he realizes that his brother hasn’t heard a word he just said. Because Dean’s staring at his chest with that look on his face, the one that says he’s hungry and Sam’s the next course.   
  
Generally that look is fine with him, but—“Dean. Psycho ghost wants to kill a bunch of innocent natives, remember? We gotta get moving on this.”  
  
“Fuck that.” Dean grabs the gas can and throws salt on the ground. “I cast you out, bitch. Hurt anyone and your ass will be exorcised to hell.” He lets the can crash to the ground and turns to Sam. “Alright, let’s get busy.”  
  
Sam is going to give a speech on how he’s not that easy and Dean needs to stop taking the sex for granted—really, he is. But then Dean’s mouth is on his and Dean’s hand is cupping his ass and really, resolving serious emotional issues is highly overrated.  
  
The water droplets feel like they’re sealing Sam’s lips to Dean when Dean kisses him. Sam knows that water droplets cling because they’re polar molecules, and he knows about surface tension and osmosis and diffusion and a billion other water-related things—and none of them matter right now because Dean’s mouth is traveling over his face, cool and wet, sucking up water droplets and tickling sensitive areas with his tongue.  
  
“ _Dean,_ ” Sam says, or moans really, “I’m—there’s dirt—“  
  
“I can’t taste it.” Tongue in his _ear,_ which was always really gross until Dean did it a few weeks ago, and now Sam just kind of moans as his knees do their very best not to buckle. “There’s an upside to rain, you know.”  
  
He wants to say something clever, something ironic, but what comes out is, “Unh.”  
  
“I need…c’mon.” Dean’s hands tug at his pants, not quite getting them down but managing to wriggle beneath the waistband so he can cup Sam’s ass. Sam gasps and feels himself slumping backwards. He’s always jealous of Dean, who somehow never needs anything to lean against when Sam’s making him come so hard he can’t even talk—but then Dean leans against him, gripping his hair and grinding Sam against the cool wet surface of the car, and maybe Sam doesn’t mind leaning quite so much.  
  
“Wait,” Sam says. It’s supposed to be, shit, a low sexy growl or something, but it’s really more of a breathy gasp that gives Sam weird Sweet Valley High type vibes, and—  
  
Dean bites his shoulder. “Ow!” –but Dean’s tongue is twirling on his shoulder, exploring the shallow dip of his collarbone, and this is just _too fucking perfect._  
  
“We’re staying here,” Dean murmurs.   
  
Sam gulps and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”  
  
They both lean in at the same time, and their noses bump together uncomfortably. “Um,” Sam says.  
  
“Just hold still.” Dean’s fingers thread through Sam’s hair and bring him closer, and…that’s actually a good idea. Sam cups Dean’s face and kisses him, their lips sliding slick and cool and wet across each other.   
  
“Lie back,” Dean orders softly.  
  
Sam obeys almost without thought, shuddering as the beaded water on the Impala’s hood comes in contact with his back, sliding down past his rucked-up shirt and into his pants.  
  
It should be gross—it _was_ gross, when they were trying to cast out the spirit—but right now it makes him shudder and thrust his hips.  
  
“Jesus, Sam.” Dean grits his teeth. The hand that’s tangled in Sam’s hair pulls until Sam finds himself arching off the back of the car, grinding against Dean’s dick with a savage grin on his face.  
  
“Stop.”  
  
An order, spoken in the same voice Dean always uses when they’re about to get killed by something that’s not supposed to exist.  
  
It shouldn’t make Sam hard, so of course it almost makes him come right then and there.  
  
“ _Damn_ it,” he gasps, fingers skating over the soaked fabric of Dean’s shirt. “Dean, come on, just—“  
  
“What’ll you do for me?”  
  
The question makes him very seriously consider just killing Dean. But then he’d be out here in the wet, cold rain with no one to get rid of the hard-on that was currently making him miserable (or ecstatic. Whatever), and that prospect was almost too much to bear.  
  
So he says an embarrassingly desperate “Anything,” and waits.  
  
“Hmm.” Dean cocks his head, water droplets rolling down the side of his face. It’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen—right until Dean licks his lips and actually _leers._  
  
“Take your shirt off.”  
  
At that moment if Dean had ordered him to have sex with the Impala’s tail pipe he probably would’ve. Sam immediately starts yanking at the wet fabric, puling it away from his skin and trying to get it over his head.  
  
But it’s heavy with water and Sam is more than a little clumsy, so he ends up wiggling and jerking under Dean as he untangles his arms from the tee and pops it over his head.  
  
His hair is a mess now, he knows, sticking up in slick spikes, but Dean just laughs and runs his lips over Sam’s brow.  
  
“We oughta do this more often,” Dean mutters. Sam’s about to give him a dissertation on the evils of rain and how just because fucking on the hood of the Impala is sexy doesn’t mean that the water makes it any sexier when Dean’s hands slide over his chest and up to his nipples, and the bolt of what feels a lot like lightning that shoots through him when the _slickwetcold_ pads of Dean’s fingers start playing with him makes every single coherent thought fly right out of his head.  
  
“You’re really pretty, you know.”  
  
Sam blinks at Dean, completely befuddled. Water has run down his forehead and misted his vision till he can’t tell if the lopsided grin on Dean’s face is serious or not. “What.”  
  
“You. Pretty.” Fingers skimming down his chest, over his belt, cupping his— _oh_ —molding the fabric of his jeans to his cock till Sam wants out, wants _in._  
  
“Wanna fuck me?”  
  
“Gah,” Sam says.  
  
So Dean stands up, pushes him away from the car, and bends over. His fingers are splayed across the hood, his legs spread a little, hips moving against the car—waiting for Sam to undress him, and for a second it’s almost too much.  
  
He has to grip Dean’s hips to stop himself from coming, but even that barely helps because Dean is _soaking wet_ and Sam suddenly has a _crazy_ water kink.  
  
“Sam.” Dean actually grinds his ass against Sam’s cock. “I swear to God, if you don’t fuck me _right fucking now_ I will tie your toes to the Goddamned bumper.”  
  
Inspiration, Sam decides, is a dangerous thing—he hooks his fingers through Dean’s belt loops and pulls Dean back almost brutally, pressing his mouth against the soggy ribbing of Dean’s shirt.  
  
“Are you so sure about that?” he asks. “I could hold you here all day if I wanted to.”  
  
Dean immediately starts pushing back against Sam—but his hands slide uselessly against the carefully waxed and now slippery wet surface.   
  
Sam grins and pushes him down further, rucking Dean’s shirt up so the metal is against his bare skin. “Maybe I’ll just keep you here.”  
  
The noise might be Sam’s name if they both spoke Orc, or something. It’s Sam’s turn to smirk when he pulls Dean’s pants down, brushing his fingers against cold skin. And he should be patient, find the lube (wherever it is—Dean sticks lube in really weird places, like the ashtray and his fucking shoe, for Christ’s sake) and slick Dean up, but instead he just drops down to his knees, spreads Dean open, and kisses him.  
  
Kisses him, and fucks him with his tongue, because they spend half their time being dicks to each other but this, _this,_ is the reason for so many things.  
  
“Oh—oh, fuck. Sam. Ohgod. This—I. _Please._ ” He can hear Dean’s hands skating over the Impala, can hear his fingernails _scratching_ the metal, which is insane because this is Dean and his car is like some kind of holy grail.  
  
But he’s damaging it now, scratching and thrusting and _begging_ over and over, a stream of “ _Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease_ ” that’s driving Sam out of his mind.  
  
He drags his tongue across Dean one more time before placing a hand on the small of Dean’s back—and Dean actually _trembles._ Wow.  
  
“Sam.”  
  
Just his name, it’s just his name and it shouldn’t make him want to jump up and down or fuck Dean into the ground or hell, just explode, but it does all three. “Yeah,” he says breathlessly, and then he’s lining himself up and pushing in, rain and precome making it easy, and—  
  
_There._  
  
Dean hisses in a breath and slams up against the car. Suddenly it’s he who’s pushing back while Sam leans against him, his hips undulating, helpless to even hold himself up. “Dean, I—“  
  
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean orders, water making the words sound sloppy, almost drunk.  
  
So Sam does. He wraps his hands around Dean’s arms, pulling them back a little—Dean’s head arches back and Sam takes advantage, kissing the spot right below his ear as he thrusts into Dean, again and again, the rain falling around them like a curtain.  
  
It hides them from people who’d kill them both for this.  
  
The thought makes him groan in helpless wonder, because this—fucking, being fucked, kissing against the hood of the car that’s Sam’s only home—this feels _sacred_ and he knows it shouldn’t. He knows, when he mutters Dean’s name and Dean shudders and Sam thinks _brother_ and his body jerks with the first wave of his orgasm, that no one in the world will say this is right—but then Dean comes too, jaw clenched and hands clenching at whatever surface he can reach, fighting to keep control that Sam’s fucked out of him, and he not only loses his mind but he also loses everything in him that might care about the damnation of others.  
  
They stay there for a moment afterwards, wrapped up together. The rain is starting to make Sam shiver, so he moves closer to Dean—Dean’s shirt is still on and he’s radiating heat like some kind of freakish human furnace.  
  
Heh. Well, Dean always wanted to have superpowers.  
  
Sam feels the smile when Dean wraps his arms around Sam’s shoulders. “You are such a wuss.”  
  
“I fucking hate rain,” Sam informs him matter-of-factly.  
  
The grin turns lopsided. “Yeah,” Dean says, ducking forward and licking a drop of water on Sam’s jaw. “Yeah, I know.”  
  
||  
  
End  
  
||  
  
Notes: Title comes from the proverb "A promise is a cloud; fulfillment is rain."


End file.
